Tears welled up in my eyes. “Evelyn, I wish I could hug you. That’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  Evelyn rolled her eyes. “No need to get melodramatic. The people who love you have told you often enough that you’re special. It’s time you realized it yourself.”

  “I’ll try,” I said softly.

  “Don’t be afraid to give the Wise Women a go. If you decide against joining, well, then let them know.”

  I laughed as I remembered. “This reminds me of the first time you appeared and told me to tell Sally I’d think about taking the job. I was all set to say …”

  But Evelyn had already disappeared, leaving me to reflect on how close I’d come to refusing the position of head of programs and events, and missing out on the life I loved so much.

  * * *

  I returned to an empty office. Trish had left me a note saying that Sally had asked her to cover the hospitality desk. Had Sally done that, I wondered, knowing that after our conversation I’d need my privacy? Yes, I decided. Aside from being my boss and a Wise Woman in the literal sense, she was my friend and wanted to ease the turmoil she knew the invitation was causing me.

  I called Sally and told her I’d decided to attend the Friday night meeting.

  “Good. I thought you might,” she said, and gave me the name of the woman who was hosting the meeting, along with her address and phone number.

  “I suppose I’ll be seeing you there,” I said.

  “I’m planning to attend.”

  We disconnected and I discovered that, having made my decision, I was able to concentrate on library affairs for the remainder of the afternoon.

  * * *

  Over dinner, I told Dylan about my invitation to the Wise Women’s meeting and everything that Sally and Evelyn had filled me in about the circle.

  “I remember hearing about them over the years,” he said when I’d finished. “Sounds like the kind of group you’d be interested in joining. They say it’s the article you wrote, but I bet they’ve had their eye on you because of all the women you helped in the past year and a half.”

  Even if I weren’t passionately in love with my handsome fiancé, I’d marry him because he understood me so well. Dylan never tried to stop me from doing something because it might be dangerous, though he never hesitated to tell me to be careful.

  I kissed him hard on the mouth.

  “What’s that for?” Dylan asked when he could speak.

  “For removing my last vestige of doubt about going on Friday.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now, let’s clear the table so we can work on the playlist for our wedding.”

  * * *

  I slept in the next morning since Thursday was a late workday. I ate a leisurely breakfast as I ran through my wedding to-do list. After emailing the playlist to our band leader, there was nothing we had to do until a few days before the wedding, when we would make last-minute calls to the caterer and the party rental place to give them our final numbers. Babette and Victor had offered to do this for us, but Dylan understood that I wouldn’t relax unless we made these calls ourselves. Not that I expected to relax those few days before our big event.

  However, I wanted to buy a few more items of clothing for our honeymoon in Greece. With this in mind, I decided to drive to a boutique in Merrivale I’d heard so much about.

  “Sorry, Smoky Joe,” I told my furry feline as he ran to the front door. “I’ll be back in a few hours, then we’re off to the library.”

  His plaintive meow expressed his displeasure.

  It was another perfect sunny June morning. Trees, shrubs, and flowers were in bloom beneath a cloudless azure sky. I hummed as I drove along the private Avery road. So much had happened to me during the twenty months I’d lived in the cottage. Getting a meaningful job, falling in love with Dylan, making friends and settling into life in Clover Ridge. And now Dylan and I were getting married!

  I thought about our appointment Saturday morning to check out the house that my aunt and uncle were so eager to have us look at. After hearing their description, I had a good feeling about the place. I grinned, wondering if the ghost or ghosts would make an appearance. After my close friendship with Evelyn, the idea of living in a haunted house was not a deal breaker. Also, I liked the idea of living close to the site of the old Singleton Farm. It had been a part of my family history, and I had fond memories of spending summer vacations there with Aunt Harriet and Uncle Bosco.

  I spotted a stationery store in the strip mall coming up on my right, and stopped to buy a copy of the Gazette. My article in yesterday’s paper might have inspired letters in response to the subject of Verity Babcock.

  Back in the car, I turned to the Letters to the Editor section. Sure enough, there were a few letters commenting on the article, praising me for having revived the issue of a pardon for Verity Babcock. One writer said he planned to contact state officials and insist that they open up proceedings to issue her a pardon as well as an apology for having taken her life under the ridiculous charge of witchcraft.

  Finally, there was a long letter from someone named Garrett Grimm. My fury grew as I read on. The writer contended that the charge of witchcraft was a legitimate crime at the time because those accused had caused the deaths of humans and livestock.

  Grimm claimed to have studied Verity Babcock’s life, the charges against her, and her ensuing trial. At the time she was the most knowledgeable herbalist in the area. He went on to write that information gleaned from letters and journals of the time revealed that Verity was a person with no close friends. After her husband died, she often quarreled with her neighbors, accusing one of letting his cattle graze on her land, another of extending one of his planting fields onto her property. Though she won both cases, a neighbor, John Whitcomb, died after ingesting her herbal remedies. So, he claimed, even if Verity Babcock wasn’t a witch in our modern interpretation of the word, she was a murderer and deserved the sentence of hanging that she’d received.

  He ended his diatribe by saying the discovery of the diary—or should he call it a rediscovery since the library seemed to have had no knowledge that they owned such an item—was of historical interest and should be made available to patrons. He also advised me to study my subject more thoroughly and objectively before suggesting that a pardon was in order. He finished with “After all, if our legislators considered this a worthy task, exoneration would have been offered years ago when the subject was first brought to their attention.”

  I howled with outrage as I shoved the newspaper aside. How dare he? Where was Garrett Grimm getting his information? Of course Verity must have quarreled with her neighbors if they were taking advantage of her widow status. The fact that she’d won both judgments against them spoke volumes.

  I’d read Verity’s diary a few times. Her explanation regarding the death of her neighbor rang true each time I came to that section. John Whitcomb had been ill for several days before his wife asked for Verity’s help. After examining the sick man, Verity told his wife that she’d waited too long to call her in, and now she doubted that any herbal remedy she might offer could bring about a cure. But John’s wife, Hester, had cried and pleaded until Verity agreed to treat John.

  John revived after one dosage but died the following evening. In her grief, Hester claimed that Verity was a witch and had poisoned her husband. Verity wrote about her growing terror as more charges were mounted against her and her trial date grew near. What was Garrett Grimm’s agenda? Why was he so set on besmirching poor Verity’s reputation, labeling her a murderer if not a witch?

  The boutique in Merrivale had a wonderful array of clothing, and I soon forgot about Grimm’s attack on Verity Babcock as I tried on summer dresses and shorts and tops. My young saleswoman was most helpful, and an hour later I left the store laden down with additions to my summer wardrobe. I hummed as I drove home, thrilled with my success.

  Back at the cottage, I fed Smoky Joe, made myself a salad for lunch, and drove to the library. As soon as I released Smoky Joe from his carrier, I stopped by Sally’s office to tell her about Garrett Grimm’s letter in the Gazette.

  “I read it.” She dismissed my concern with a wave of her hand. “Don’t let Garrett’s rant upset you. The man’s a troublemaker. He doesn’t have an ethical bone in his body.”

  “But why does he insist that Verity murdered John Whitcomb and deserved to be hung?”

  “He thrives on attention,” Sally said. “And he’s one person who should keep a low profile.”

  “Why?”

  “Garrett’s a wheeler-dealer. Always making deals as crooked as a boomerang. He’s been arrested a few times, but somehow the charges never stick. And if that old lime-green jalopy he drives around in is any indication of his success or lack thereof, I’d say he’s a loser all around.”

  “So his letter in the paper didn’t upset you?” I said.

  “Carrie, dear, focus on all the positive feedback your article has received. I was delighted that so many people have come out in support of a pardon. Maybe we’ll be successful this time.”

  Heartened by Sally’s reaction to Garrett Grimm’s letter, I was calmer when I sat down at my computer to compose my own letter to the editor. I began by thanking the many people who had written in support of exoneration for Verity Babcock. I then set about refuting every negative comment that Garrett Grimm had written about her. Yes, she was an herbalist, but no, she wasn’t a witch. She had brought many of her friends and neighbors back to health. She had won both cases against her neighbors because they were in the wrong, and finally, there was no proof whatsoever that she’d ever murdered any person or animal.

  I quoted a few lines from her diary that made it very clear she’d been terrified by the lies and stories neighbors had made up about her. I ended by writing:

  “That a few neighbors tried to take advantage of her status as a widow is apparent when you consider the judgments ruled against those neighbors and in her favor. Verity was a healer. She was not responsible for the death of anyone she tried to help. John Whitcomb was ill with a bad case of pneumonia when his wife begged Verity to cure her husband. Even today, people die of pneumonia, whether or not they take medicine. It’s sad that anyone living in the twenty-first century may believe that Verity deserved her fate.”

  I closed my missive with

  “I think it’s safe to say that while the charges of witchcraft were bogus, the reason for the charges were all too real. I remind Mr. Grimm that fear, envy, and resentment were often the impetus for one neighbor to accuse another of witchcraft in the mid-1600s. An accuser often gained recompense for what he or she supposedly lost, and the recompense was taken from the so-called ‘witch’s’ pocket.”

  Satisfied with my response, I pressed “Send” and off it went to the Gazette.

  Chapter Eight

  My pulse raced with nervous anticipation as I set out for the Wise Women’s meeting. According to my GPS, the address Sally had given me was on a street Dylan and I drove past when we visited Victor, so there was no chance of my getting lost.

  I rapped the bronze knocker on the front door and stepped back to admire the colonial-style brick house. There was a bay window on either side of the door and shutters on the upstairs windows. The mulched flowerbeds were filled with pink and fuchsia annuals in bloom.

  A pleasant-looking woman in her sixties greeted me in the hall with a smile and a handshake. “Hello, Carrie. I’m Winifred Thompson—Winnie to my friends. Please come inside and meet everyone.”

  A young man who looked to be in his early twenties shuffled down the stairs from the floor above. Dressed in baggy jeans and a T-shirt, his straggly hair was unkempt, as if he just had woken up. His dazed expression added to that impression.

  “Leslie!” Winnie said, clearly embarrassed by her son’s unexpected appearance. “I thought you went out for the evening.”

  He laughed as if she’d said something funny. “I decided to take a nap instead. What’s for dinner?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find something in the fridge. And please eat it in your room. As I told you earlier, I’m hosting a meeting.”

  “Oh, you’re hosting a meeting,” he echoed sarcastically as he ambled into the kitchen—barefoot, I now noticed.

  “Sorry about that,” Winnie apologized to me. “My son is twenty-five, but he sometimes acts like a teenager.”

  She led me into the family room, where about fifteen women were seated in a circle. They appeared to range in age from early thirties, like me, to their eighties. Sally waved at me, which helped take away some of my anxiety. A few others called out friendly greetings.

  I gave a start to find Reggie Williams’s wife, Marissa, grinning at me. And let out a gasp when Sylvia Mathers gave me a thumbs-up. So there were women here whom I knew! A few others looked familiar, but the rest were strangers.

  Winnie led me to the one available seat, a chair beside the long sofa where Sally was sitting.

  “Wise Women, this is our guest, Carrie Singleton.”

  Everyone clapped. When the applause died down, I said, “Thank you for inviting me here tonight.”

  “It’s our pleasure and our honor to have you as our guest. As I’ve told you, I’m Winnie Thompson. I’m a recently retired family court judge, and I’ve lived in Clover Ridge all my life. I’m a descendent of the Carrington family, the same family Verity Babcock was born into. One of my great-great-great aunts started the Wise Women’s Circle in the early twentieth century. We have done our best to keep the circle going.

  “Now each Wise Woman will introduce herself in turn, though you already know a few of us. We don’t expect you to remember everyone’s name, so don’t feel bad if you forget who we are.”

  This brought on laughter and smiles, which removed the last bit of my anxiety. I’d expected a formal atmosphere and instead was finding only friendliness and ease.

  Each woman stated her name, how long she’d been living in Clover Ridge, and what type of work she did. The jobs varied, from caterer to college professor, to housecleaner. Two of the younger women were stay-at-home moms. I smiled at each one in turn.

  When everyone had spoken, Winnie said, “We held the business part of our meeting before you arrived, and now we’re ready to talk about new business and why we’ve asked you to join us. I hope you’ll tell us a little about yourself.”

  I cleared my throat. “My name is Carrie Singleton. I’m the head of programs and events at the Clover Ridge Library. I also serve on the town board, at least through November of this year.

  “My family has lived in Clover Ridge for four generations, but I never heard of the Wise Women’s Circle until a few days ago, when I received your invitation.”

  “We try to keep it that way,” a short, dark-haired woman named Norma called out.

  “And I’m getting married in two weeks.”

  The room burst out in applause.

  Sylvia raised her hand, and Winnie acknowledged her. “Carrie is too modest to mention that she’s helped my husband solve a number of homicides.”

  “I think we’re all well aware of that,” Winnie said, “and it’s the reason why we sleep more easily in our beds. Though we have had a few recent murders, and so far no suspect has been apprehended.”

  “Lowlifes killing one another,” Beverly, a retired professor in her eighties commented. “We’ve nothing to fear from them.”

  Other Wise Women chimed in, expressing their opinions, until Winnie held up her hand. Immediately the conversation came to a halt.

  “I’d like to get back to the subject of tonight’s meeting. Verity Babcock is very dear to my heart, as she is to all Wise Women and members of my family. We have made several attempts to have her exonerated for the ridiculous and cruel charge of witchcraft that took her life all those years ago.”

  “Yes!” members shouted as they raised fists into the air.

  “We’ve been told there is no existing state law that would allow Verity to be pardoned. Nor is there any record of the evidence that led up to her trial that sent her to her death.”

  Winnie beamed at me. “But the discovery of Verity’s diary throws light on her state of mind while she was being hounded by those accusing her of having caused illness and death.”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m glad I discovered Verity’s diary hidden away among the various pamphlets, books, and papers in the library’s Historical Room, but I fail to see how that will help get her exonerated.”

  “If I may, Winnie,” Marissa said. Reggie Williams’s wife, a stunning Black woman who was a research lawyer, stood. “As our circle’s archivist, I am constantly searching for articles about Verity Babcock and the crime of witchcraft. I also keep my ear to the ground to find out which women living in our area might have need of our services, though this is something all Wise Women do.”

  Marissa smiled at me. “For example, last year I learned about Michelle Davis Forbes, a young woman who lived her first sixteen years in Clover Ridge, moved away, then returned with her husband a few years ago. He soon abandoned her. Depressed and unemployed, Michelle was in a bad way. I was about to bring up her situation at a circle meeting, when I discovered that Michelle was receiving assistance from you, Carrie Singleton. And now she’s thriving in her new life.”

  My ears grew warm as the other women applauded. Evelyn had asked me to help her niece, Michelle, who was sad and downhearted after her husband had left her. All I’d done was introduce her to my lawyer and help her find a job.

  “Another big reason why we’ve asked you here tonight,” Winnie said, beaming.

  “Getting back to Verity’s situation,” Marissa said, “as soon as we learned that Verity’s diary was in the library, I went there hoping to read it from cover to cover, but I was informed that no one has access to the diary—at least not until a forensic expert examines it and decides the best way to make it available to the public.